


beyond the horizon

by bezzzno



Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, M/M, translated from Russian so sorry for the mistakes, voluntary bloodshed so be careful
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-16 08:55:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29698110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bezzzno/pseuds/bezzzno
Summary: The crumbling monster here, stuck with its sharp toys in the factory, turned out to be nothing but locked up.
Relationships: David King/Evan MacMillan | The Trapper
Kudos: 5





	beyond the horizon

Occasional breaks — something like a powerful heart of the holiday — between the tests of David walks. The district is familiar to the point of insanity — on it, you get fucked up in a sieve by anyone. But the most visited is the Foundry. The frozen darkness and the air when you come there, crunching the grass, when you're safe — at least not now.

To climb to the highest height, with your legs dangling, to lean on the grate: the metal is cold on your forehead, that you cover your eyes — and here you are in a real paradise. Not the most romantic, warm, or anything like that, but ... but like when he was a kid. You seem to be at the top, and closing your eyes and forgetting where you are-even more so.

The silence around him is killing, so much so that it calms him down. Fear disappears, any doubt disappears, all thoughts disappear, except the remnants of your humanity.

In the head more and more often creeps the trash, the stages of which the newcomers in his circle have yet to feel — _what is it like to be on the other side_? He don't even want to assume that either. Not that he's tempted to _try_ or go against his own people — he'd rather cut his head off with a Redneck chainsaw — but David, in his crazy imagination, hopes that at least _someone_ here might be _better_ off. At least as good as he was.

The thought didn't just come. He's not a fool — he knows where he's hanging his legs and ricocheting the bad stuff in his head. And he is not blind, even when he feels someone else's presence even among the frozen. It's constant - when David is here — and all too familiar.

A warehouse with scattered ledgers, a disfigured coal tower, a persistent smell of burning that permeated even the metal. David studied everything here, wondering only why the local resident would allow it. Why it allows you to study traps and try to break at least one-fucked up, even with his complexion does not work, not that laudatory...

Why he allows you to get very close.

David was not very subtle and invisible, and the steps of covering up were also problematic, but he did not try very hard. Monsters don't have blind spots when you're around, they always see and know what to do when they find you. And they obviously know when you're behind them.

Not that he was exhausted from courage, but rather from curiosity,and maybe both... David had seen him a couple of times, and not far away. And he always looking back, seeing — and leaving. As if he didn't want to interfere, or on the contrary, gave permission. If only he knew which was more interesting.

That long evening, exploring the shadow, David went through everything: searching, picking up traps, putting them in one place — some shitty activity, as if he wanted to help. To help to impale their own — and themselves as well-probably. On the legs, the scars do not grow over. They are decorated with frosty shackles on their ankles, and each time it hurts more and more to step on a new one, as if you are biting off your own bone, losing a piece of your soul, so empty, and the scar is still there, still thick and patterned. It's scary to say that it's _beautiful_.

The scars are on the Hunter himself, like on a map. That's what David thought as he came closer, without the hazy look that usually comes with it. Protruding tools or debris, a smile stretched on the mask, the crust almost crumbling on the hands. The crumbling monster here, stuck with its sharp toys in the factory, turned out to be nothing but locked up.

_"We are thrown here at least with a fucking choice. To die or to try again. And you don't even have one."_

The burnt skin opposite and this mine. A factory and an endlessly spinning market name. Awareness covers his instantly.

_"Macmillan."_

The Hunter turns with a clink of metal on his back and throws the cleaver. David, lost in thought, doesn't even dodge. The wall next to it is covered with cracks.

 _—_ I wish you'd hit it. _"_

He looks at the cracks and feels the same way.

 _—"_ Sorry to break into your house, man —" he says, his throat tight, and he's still trying to talk. Fucking his heart finally started to pound.

David turns around, counting the steps from the mine, fuck knows why the Hunter settled there. He walks faster, more out of habit, but glimpses a huge bloodstain, straight from the warehouse. And the nerves are gnawing to go and see one last time, which he does.

An incredible sight is a maroon canvas. A huge wall that contains a composition. David is impressed and melts.

A finely executed painting made entirely of blood, dirt, and charcoal mash. At the edges, branches stretch out, watered even with bright orange, like those familiar, oozing flowers. The branches pass through the house, just the one he just left. The factory is swarming with smoke, as if it is working at full speed, but everything is swallowed up by the dark, deep sky. He sees the factory and _his_ ladder. As if from a place where you usually feel someone else's presence. He sees the empty space and it stings his throat at the indelible, awkward thought.

David exhales, chuckles.

— If you don't have enough paint, just say so, " he mutters to himself.

He rubs his hand, warming it up, looks around, and-oh, how lucky — there's a thin blade lying around.

It's hard to call it a blade, but it's clearly cutting — some kind of chip, maybe from the roof, but what the fuck does it matter...

David, in disbelief, cuts at his finger faster than his brain can work at all.

The blood flows from the finger like an openwork, descending to the veins, spreading out on its own web.

It's a sin, of course, to interfere with someone's work, especially one that is so diligent, but what can you do when you are sick with the feeling that _something_ is missing. Blood burns his thumb, but David thinks for a long time, looking at the painfully clean, prepared place just on the stairs. _At his favorite altitude_.

He'd be damned if it was a coincidence and his brain was numb. David exhales, calms the trembling in his hand — and touches the wall.

The likeness of a man, ugly, of course... _it's just like in real life_ — he laughs, nervously leaving a trail.

His blood is fresh, bright, and seems to glow in the midst of all the dusty, but so attractive dullness. David stares for a moment longer and then looks down awkwardly, squeezing his hand, which paints all his fingers. And leaves as quickly as possible. Weightlessly apologizing for the weakness, for the _dirt_ left — in the form of himself.

He leaves, not seeing the heavy step of the Hunter who has come to his work.

He leaves without seeing a hand touch the fresh spot.

Nor does he see the smile that cuts under the mask.

The Hunter laughs.


End file.
